Planet Poet

My mother’s husband tried to drown me in the bathtub.

He didn’t know how I amazed my friends by holding my breath longer than anyone in the pool at the Saint Mary’s park recreational center where hallways are painted with the images of Marvel superheroes like Captain America

Not ready to breath water, my brain flashed exit strategies until it settled on one:

PLAY DEAD

The boy I was went into violent convulsions and then lifeless in the waters. And that horrific scene made my poor mother’s spouse let go of my neck and run out of the apartment with an awful shriek into the streets of The South Bronx. 

I stood up on golden sands of Orchard Beach, The French Riviera of The Bronx, and pulled down my first diver’s mask purchased with money I made from shining shoes opposite a newsstand next to The White House, a supermarket on Prospect Street.

 I walked on water before a galaxy of an ocean made me feel the power of flight span wider than the white wings of seagulls in shades of blue skies.

The waters washed over memories of belt lashings on my back and healed me from the brutality of gangs, police, politicians, bullies jealous of my grades, drugs and addicts in burnt out buildings and other social ills spoiling a beautiful planet.

As the boy I was flew deeper into a part of Heaven on Earth called The Atlantic, he heard the sea sing like angels in songs never heard by human beings. Not a word. Experience.

Freedom.

This is freedom

I was free.

Freedom to find Atlantis

How poetic I’m Aquarius

The Water Bearer

To Be Continued

http://admericaintechnicolor.blogspot.com

Copyrighted Art & Text & Photography By

 DAAD/ Daniel Angel Aponte Dreamer 2017

When I was a boy, I looked at an eclipse with my bare eyes in The South Bronx of burnt out buildings.

A strange thing happened afterward.

A bright light appeared in front of my bedroom window, as did a hurricane inside my room that scattered my comic books around, among other objects.

I was being pulled into the light.

It was sheer force of will that prevented the little boy I was from disappearing into another dimension.

I wasn’t ready for a new reality.

This is the persistence of my memory. 

I recall being gifted in childhood with photographic memory and creativity.

I remember doctors that wanted to administer a new drug designed to dissolve a gland in the head of the little boy I was.

 I stared into the eyes of a doctor. He didn’t give me the drug.

The place where it happened was destroyed.

Today, it’s a parking lot of sorts for The New York City Police Department.

In The New Millennium, a young American man tried to get inside the building my mother has resided in for decades.

 He identified himself as Mark Wilson, a reporter for The New York Post.

He wanted to interview eyewitnesses to several bright lights across the building that hovered for a few seconds before taking off at unbelievable speed.

I studied pictures on his cell phone. 

Mister Wilson, I am sure you are reading this, as I am sure of scientific evidence to prove aliens have been on this gem of a planet for thousands of years.

One of the aliens is called poverty.

Make with the mild mannered reporter thing and help change the world for the best.

I am transmitting this final message from a public library in The South Bronx.

Afterward, I will go out into the street and look into the eclipse.

I wasn’t ready to leave the world when I was a kid.

I am ready

Now

My Re@l Life @s @ Comic Book

New York Radiology made MRI of my brain. Conceptual art and text by

D@niel @ngel @ponte

Copyrighted 2017

http://admericaintechnicolor.blogspot.com